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THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
923 Arcli Street 


Philadelphia 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


A Comedy in Three Acts 

(Adapted from “ Prete Moi ta Femme ”) 


By 

Charles Townsend 


Author of “ A White Mountain Boy,” 

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A Loyal Friend,” “ Four A. M.,” Etc. 

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AUTHOR’S EDITION 

With Cast of Characters, Time of Representation, Synopsis of Incidents, 
Description of Costumes, Scene and Property Plots, Entrances 
and Exits, Suggestions, and all of the Stage Business 



The Penn Publishing; Company 

1898 










Copyright 1898 by The Penn Publishing Company 






A Family Affair 

CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Dan Gillespie, a good fellow, whose imagination runs away 
with him. 

Jorkins Jobson, his gardener ; a high authority on potato- 
bugs. 

Deacon Smith, who finds it difficult to be good under ad¬ 
verse circumstances. 

Sally, Dans good-hearted little cook , who, unlike most 
women, can really keep a secret. 

Miss Camson, his housekeeper, in the matrimonial market, 
and means business. 

Louisiana, a dark brunette, on the warpath. 


Time in Playing, two Hours 


Special Notice. —The author and proprietor of “A Family Affair” re¬ 
serves to himself all rights of performing the said play in all parts of the 
United States. Amateur dramatic clubs are at liberty to produce the play 
without further notice; but professionals, actors, and managers can do so only 
by paying the author’s royalty. Any unlawful production of the play will be 
prosecuted under the new copyright Act to the full extent of the law. 

Managers desiring this play may secure it at reasonable rates by addressing 
the author, in care of the publishers. 


3 








SYNOPSIS 


Act I.— Place : Dan’s country home, near New York. 
Time: A midsummer morning. Dan arrives. The bicycle 
race. Hail Columbia! The telegram. Dan in trouble. 
Wives, wives, wives! 

Act II.— Place: The same. Time: Midday. Babies in 
demand. The “ married bachelor.” An oversupply of 
“ kids.” Dan’s dilemma. “ A brand-new coon in town.” 

Act III.— Place: The same. Time: Evening. The 
deacon wants to know. The photograph. An African 
cyclone. Jobson “ biles over.” Dan is exposed. Sally’s 
loyalty. “ I’d a-died afore I’d told.” Sally owns up. A 
bachelor, after all. 


COSTUMES 

{See also Remarks on the Play.) 

Dan. —Act I.—Bicycle suit. Act II.—Ordinary summer 
dress. Act III.—Smoking jacket. 

Jobson. —Act I.--Overalls and blouse. Change to 
woman’s dress. Acts II and III.—Ordinary dress. Fancy 
shirt and tie. 

Deacon.— Plain black throughout. Frock coat. 

Sally. Act I. First dress: Calico gown, gingham 
apron, white collar, face sooty. Second dress: Gaudy, 
old-style dress with train. Profusion of ornaments—rings, 
4 



COSTUMES 


5 


pins, bracelets, flowers, large fan, etc. All very outre. 
Act II.—Pretty house dress. Act III.—Demi-toilette, neat 
and pretty. 

Miss Camson. —Act I.—Rather gay morning wrapper. 
Act II.—House dress. Hat for last entrance. Act III.— 
Rather bizarre home dress. Fan. 

Louisiana. —Typical negress. Street dress. Loud colors. 

A Boy. —Age 4. Knickerbockers. 

Two property white babies in long dresses. 

One property negro baby in long skirts. 


PROPERTIES 

Act I.—Crash. Telegram in envelope. Bicycle. 

Act II.—Cigars and matches. Bottle of “ wine ” and 
four glasses. Memorandum book. Two white property 
babies, one black. 

Act III.—Photograph. Large property razor. Fan. 
Handsome lamp to light. 



STAGE SETTINGS 

Acts I and II 

4G --- 



Nicely-furnished room in third grooves, with interior 

backing in fourth grooves. Carpet down. Lights on. Set 
as per diagram. 


Act III 



Handsomely-furnished room in fourth grooves. Land¬ 
scape backing in fifth grooves from l. u. e. Moonlight 
effects. Interior backing at l. u. E. Lighted lamp on 
table. Carpet and rugs. Set as per diagram. 

6 











A FAMILY AFFAIR 


7 


REMARKS ON THE PLAY 

A Family Affair is a radical departure from the 
usual conventional play. Although the main idea of the 
play is based upon M. Georges Feydeau’s farce of“Prete 
Moi ta Femme,” yet in the plot, action, characters, and 
dialogue it differs radically from that play. Indeed, apart 
from the central idea—that of borrowing a wife—the play 
is wholly original. 

The role of Dan Gillespie, while by no means so com¬ 
ical as that of Jobson, is particularly suited to a dashing 
light comedian. In essaying a role of this sort especial 
care must be taken to avoid “ playing to the audience.” The 
least self-consciousness destroys the illusion, and natural¬ 
ness—the charm of the part—is lost. Dan must play to the 
people on the stage—never to the people in the audience. 
Even his side speeches must be given as if utterly uncon¬ 
scious of listeners. Dan’s age is aboui 25, make-up slightly 
tanned, manner easy and natural. 

Jobson is a star “ low-comedy” part, and one which, in 
the hands of even a fairly respectable actor, is sure to 
make a hit. Jobson is slow, droll, awkward in speech and 
action, with very few gestures. He is dull of comprehen¬ 
sion, “ thick-headed,” in fact, but is blissfully ignorant of it. 
His loyalty to Dan is a feature that must be kept promi¬ 
nently in view, for that is really what holds the story to¬ 
gether. Jobson’s age is about 25, make-up very red-faced 
and beardless. 

Deacon Smith is a bluff, quick-spoken man of 55. The 
character is on the lines of eccentric comedy, but this eccen¬ 
tricity must not be overdrawn. In making up employ but 
little color, and don’t line too heavily. Powder the hair or 
use an iron-gray dress wig and short gray side whiskers. 

Sally is a girl of 18. She is quick-witted, good-hearted, 
and wholly unmercenary. Her agreement to pass as “ Mrs. 
Gillespie ” is not made through selfishness, but from a de¬ 
sire to aid her employer in his dilemma. In playing this 
part one should avoid the common error of forgetting to 
portray her lack of culture after the first act. Indeed, 
Sally’s ill-breeding should be accentuated when she is the 
pro tern. “ lady of the house.” This can best be done by 
her obvious attempts at “ gentility,” which will make her 
errors all the more glaring. Remember, however, that she 
is neither loud nor uncouth. She is awkward in gestures, 
ungrammatical in speech, but withal so merry and lovable 


8 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


that she will capture and hold the audience from first to 
last. 

Miss Camson is a type of the bric-a-brac old maid—sim¬ 
pering, gushing, or caustic, as her mood may be. The role 
gives ample scope for good acting ; and it should be borne 
in mind that bad acting will utterly spoil the part. As a 
rule, these strong character parts are overacted, which 
renders them simply grotesque. 

Louisiana, a negress of uncertain age, differs in no 
respect from the usual stage “ darkey.” The part should be 
dressed in loud, gaudy colors and acted with much spirit. 
In professional companies the role is usually played by a 
man. 

This play will allow no drag in the lines. Cues must be 
taken up sharply, and, although the business may be elab¬ 
orated considerably, the lines must be spoken with marked 
snap and vim. 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


ACT I 

SCENE .—Room in 3d grooves, with interior backing in 4th 

grooves. For description see scene plot. Lights up. 

Time, morning. Music. 

{Enter Miss Camson c. d., followed by Jobson.) 

Miss Camson. Jobson, where have you been all this 
morning ? 

Jobson. (r. c.) I’ve been out, Miss Camson. 

Miss Camson. (l. c.) Out where ? 

Jobson. Diggin’ pertaters. 

Miss Camson. Where’s Sally ? 

Jobson. She’s out. 

Miss Camson. And Mr. Gillespie? 

Jobson. He’s out—hikin’ on his bike. 

Miss Camson. Out, out, out! And the coal and wood 
are out! and the flour, butter and sugar are out! 

Jobson. Yes, mum. 

Miss Camson. And we’ll all be out—in the streets—- 
unless Dan Gillespie gets some money. 

Jobson. Mr. Dan does the best he can, mum. He’s 
kept this house agoin’ ever since his old aunt died two 
year ago, ruther ’n shut it up an’ turn us out. Tain’t many 
young fellows as would a-done that, I’m thinkin’. 

Miss Camson. Yes, and because he’s a good-natured, 
good-looking, good-hearted young rascal we’ve stayed 
right along, with scarcely a cent of pay all these two years. 

Jobson. An’ what has he had ? 

Miss Camson. I’m sure his aunt left him all her prop¬ 
erty, and that was a fortune, I’m told. 

Jobson. But he ain’t got it yet. There’s some blamed 
rigmarole hooked onto the will so that aside from this here 
house an’ what little cash that old gowallopus of a Deacon 
Smith shells out, he ain’t got nuthin’, 

Miss Camson. And I suppose it will end with me turned 
out into a cold, pitiless world. {Cries, head on Jobson’s 
shoulder .) 

Jobson. {looks disgusted) There, there—don’t cry. 

Miss Camson. Oh ! my dear, dear Mr. Jobson, if I only 

9 





IO 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


had some strong, brave heart to protect me. (. Embraces 
him.) 

Jobson. ( utterly disgusted) Don’t be alarmed, Miss Cam- 
son, your face will protect you anywhere. 

Miss Camson. ( indig?iantly ) Jorkins Jobson! You— 
you’re a brute! 

(Exits, wrathfully, R. i e.) 

Jobson. ( looks after her.) Thank you, mum. Another 
time I might have been scared of the old lady’s tenderness 
—but now, thank goodness, I’m safe. Not only safe but 
happy, for Sally, dear Sally, sweet Sally an’ me has just been 
gettin’ married. Happy ? Why I could do a skirt dance for 
joy—that is (rubs chin) if I was a skirt dancer I could. I 
can sing anyhow (song.) But I mustn’t let Mr. Dan know, 
for I’d lose my job on the jump if he did. He don’t like 
spoony couples. (Noise of falling wood and coal off c.) 
Hello! (looks) Sally’s havin’ fun with herself out there. 

(Enter Sally c. d., dress soiled, face sooty.) 

Sally. Drat the fire, anyhow. The coal’s wet and the 
wood won’t burn. 

Jobson. (opens arms) Sally ! 

Sally. ’Sh ! (Both look around cautiously , then embraced) 

Jobson. My own sweet pertater. (Swings ha fids.) 

Sally. An’ you’re another. 

Jobson. We’re married tight. (Hands together .) 

Sally. Tighter! (Hands out.) 

Jobson. Tightest! (Hugs her.) 

Sally, (quickly) Oh ! ( They separate.) 

Jobson. What is it? 

Sally. I thought I heard something. 

Jobson. Guess you didn’t. Got to watch out just the 
same; ’cause if Mr. Dan knowed we was yoked up we’d 
both go a flyin’ quicker’n scat. 

Sally. He’s too kind-hearted for that. 

Jobson. He’s the best fellow in the world, Sally, but 
he’s sot in his ways. An’ he told me distinctively that if 
ever I got married, an’ begun raisin’ a family, I’d be of no 
more use to him. 

Sally. I’m sure I don’t want to leave here. 

Jobson. Leave here? Where I’ve been as happy as a 
squash bug on a vine ? Why, Sally, every time I dig a per¬ 
tater in the garden, I think of your starry eyes. 

Sally. And every time I cut a cabbage in the kitchen, 
I think of you. 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


II 


Jobson. Sally! 

Sally. Oh, but I like cabbages ! 

(Dan sings , off c. d.) 

Jobson. {looks off) There comes Mr. Dan. 

Sally. And a singin’ just as jolly as if he had a pocket 
full of money, and didn’t owe a cent. {Music.) 

{Enter Dan, c. d., in bicycle suit.) 

Dan. Hello, Jobson—hard at work? 

Jobson. Yes, sir. Been racing, sir ? 

Dan. Had a brush with Matthews coming in. 

Jobson. Did you beat him, sir? 

Sally. ’Course he did, Mr. Dan always does. 

Dan. It was a close call this time. First one, then the. 
other, over the ruts and rocks, bumpity bang! till we 
reached the long hill. In coasting that, Matthews got 
mixed up with an old woman, a flock of sheep, some geese, 
and a cow. So I came on alone. Anything in the house to 
eat, Sally ? 

Sally. I dunno, sir. There’s some eggs, but I wouldn’t 
swear to their age—’cause I’m doubtful. 

Dan. Doubt sustained. Anything else ? 

Sally. Yes, sir. I know what I’ll do. I’ll take some of 
the cold veal left from yesterday an’ make chicken cro¬ 
quettes out of it. 

Dan. Sally, you’re an angel. If I could see a clean spot 
on your face I’d give you a kiss. (Sally rubs face with 
apron. Jobson shakes fist at her. Dan turns and sees him , 
Jobson turns away whistling.) 

Sally. La, sir, you mustn’t think of it. {Exits l. i e.) 

Dan. Jobson! 

Jobson. {sheepishly) Yes, sir. 

Dan. What’s the row between you and Sally ? 

Jobson. ’Tween us? Why, nothin’ at all, sir. 

Dan. Then why were you making faces at her? 

Jobson. I was only hurryin’ her off to the kitchen. 

Dan. All right, Jobson. Any mail this morning ? 

Jobson. No, sir; but this here telegram {produces it) 
come an hour ago, when I was workin’ in the garden. 

Dan. {reads it) Well—that settles it. 

Jobson. No bad news, I hope. 

Dan. Bad news ? It’s an avalanche—a cyclone—a gen¬ 
eral smashup of the whole solar system! 

Jobson. Anybody hurt ? 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


12 

Dan. Look here, Jobson—when does the next train 
arrive from New York? 

Jobson. At 11.45, sir. 

Dan. Very well, sir. In the next two hours I must have 
a wife, or we’ll all be in the ditch. 

Jobson. Good gracious, sir! How’s that? 

Dan. Jobson, you’ve got a head—a good head— though 
it does run to cabbages. 

Jobson {aside) Now he’s callin’ me a cabbage-head! 

Dan. I’m going to trust you with a secret. I’ve been a 
married man for two years past. 

Jobson {aside) Why, he’s worser’n me! 

Dan. Yet my wife is a fata morgana. 

Jobson. Oh, your wife is a Dutchman, eh ? 

Dan. No ; for I have no wife, and never had one. 

Jobson. Then how the dickens— 

Dan. I’ll tell you. That excellent old aunt of mine left 
me all her property with the proviso that I should marry and 
settle down here. In that event, Deacon Smith, who has 
charge of the property, was to pay me one hundred dollars 
a month. After two years of married bliss I was to receive 
the entire property in a lump. I needed money, of course, 
so after coming here two years ago, I wrote the Deacon 
that I was married, and he has been sending the money 
right along. Of course we couldn’t all live on a sum like 
that. 

Jobson. Of course not, sir. 

Dan. Certainly not. So now and then I hatched up a 
tale of woe which would bring an extra hundred or two 
from the old gentleman, and thus we’ve kept soul and body 
together. 

Jobson. What did you tell him? 

Dan. The usual stuff—sickness—a growing family —and 
so on and so forth. 

Jobson. Why didn’t you marry sure enough, sir ? 

Dan. Because I couldn’t. I fell in love with a beautiful 
girl—met her at the beach last summer. She’s at Vassar, 
and we’ll be married when she’s nineteen. Her old fool 
of a father won’t let her marry before. 

Jobson. Won’t that put everything plumb straight ? 

Dan. No, confound it. She won’t be nineteen for three 
months yet. And there’s this infernal telegram from the 
Deacon, saying that he’s coming up to-day. I suppose he 
wants to see my interesting family before turning over the 
property. 

Jobson. Tell him your wife is at her mother’s. 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 13 

Dan. Hang it all, man! I told him my wife was an 
orphan—never had any father nor mother. 

Jobson. It’s an awful muddle, sir—like tryin’ to sort out 
a dozen kinds of pertaters in a bin. 

Dan. Blast the potatoes ! Find me a wife ! 

Jobson. That easier said ’n done, sir. Wives as you 
want pro temporibus aint as thick as peas in a pod. 

Dan. Can’t you get out of the garden ? 

Jobson. Yes, sir. Why don’t you try Miss Camson? 
She’d marry you soon enough and quick enough. 

Dan. Jobson—is your life insured? 

Jobson No, sir—not yet. 

Dan. Then you better attend to it. If you ever mention 
Camson to me again there’ll be a funeral. 

Jobson. I didn’t mean no harm, sir. 

Dan. All right. Clear out now, I want to think. 

Jobson. Yes, sir. (Aside.) Poor fellow. I’ll find the 
old chromo an’ drop her a hint, anyhow. 

(Exit L. I E.) 

Dan. (seated, hands back of head) As Shakespeare says, 
there is a tide in the man of affairs—no, there, is an affair 
in the tide of man—no, hang it—there is a man tied in 
affairs—or something like that. Anyhow, my affairs are bad 
enough. If the Deacon finds out that I’m not married, I’ll 
be regularly done up. 

(Enter Miss Camson, c. d.) 

Dan. Come what will, I must have a wife. 

Miss Camson. (aside) The dear young man ! 

Dan. But the question is, where shall I find one ? 

Miss Camson. (bashfully) Mr. Gillespie, I—I— (laughs). 

Dan. (glances over shoulder) Good heavens! 

Miss Camson. Jobson said you wish to see me. 

Dan. Oh ! he did ? 

Miss Camson. That you were in serious trouble, and 
that I (giggles) I was the only person who could help you 
out. 

Dan. That’s very kind of Jobson. 

Miss Camson. If your happiness depends on me, dear 
Mr. Gillespie, you may be sure that I will—I will— (with 
affected shyness) I will— (he looks at her), I’ll sink my 
maidenly reserve and meet you half way. 

Dan. (groans) Oh! 

Miss Camson. (aside) The dear boy; lie’s surely going 
to propose ! 


14 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


Dan. {aside) She’s an awful pill, but then—Miss Cam- 
son— 

Miss Camson. {turns quickly') Yes, Mr. Gillespie ? 

Dan. {turns away , ha?ids in pocket) Whew ! 

Miss Camson. {asideJoyfully) Now it’s cornin’—I know 
it—I know it! 

Dan. Miss Camson, have you ever— 

Miss Camson. {quickly) Yes! 

Dan. Ever thought of— 

Miss Camson. {same) Oh, yes, indeed ! 

Dan. {draws breath , scratches head). 

Miss Camson. {aside) Why doesn’t he say it ? 

Dan. Have you ever thought of committing mat¬ 
rimony ? 

Miss Camson. {archly) I have — during the past ten 
minutes. 

Dan. Yes—and will—er will it suit you to be Mrs. Gil¬ 
lespie ? 

Miss Camson. {affected) Oh! This is so sudden ! {He 
turns away) But {catches his coat), I’ll say yes! Oh, 
Danny! {Embraces him) 

Dan. {quickly) For to-day only. 

Miss Camson. {springs back indignantly) What! 

Dan. Now don’t get excited. 

Miss Camson, Excited ? How dare you insult me, sir? 
How dare you ? I shall leave this house at once. {Exit 
R. i E.) 

{E?iter Jobson, l. i e.) 

Dan. Here, Jobson, you’ll have to do it. 

Jobson. Do what, sir ? 

Dan. Put on a dress and become Mrs. Gillespie. 

Jobson. I can’t do that, sir. 

Dan. But you must! 

Jobson. Now, sir, frankly speaking, do I look like a 
"’Oman ? 

Dan. Frankly speaking—you don’t. 

(Miss Camson appears r. i e., unseen by others) 

Dan. But something must be none. Unless I can in¬ 
troduce somebody to Deacon Smith as my wife I’m utterly 
ruined. 

Miss Camson. {aside) Poor boy! I’ll save him. {Exit 
r. i E.) 

Jobson. Now, Mr. Dan, I’ll do anything but that. 

Dan. Then you refuse ? 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


IS 


Jobson. I'm sorry, sir, but I—- 

Dan. Very well. Go and be hanged! And I’ll go drown 
myself. (Sits at tablet) 

Jobson. Well! (Draws long breath) I’ll do it! I’ll do 
it to help him ! (Goes l.) But I’ll be the rummiest lookin’ 
woman he ever set eyes on. (Exit l. i e.) 

Dan. That ends it all. I’ve tried—nobody can say I 
haven’t tried. The property will go to an asylum for stray 
cats, I suppose, and I may go to jail for getting money un¬ 
der false pretenses. 

(Enter Sally, c. d. Face clean) 

Sally. Your breakfast is sizzling hot, sir. 

Dan. (aside) And I’ll be sizzling, too, directly. 

Sally. Them eggs was all right. 

Dan. Happy eggs! I wish I were all right. 

Sally. What seems to be the matter, sir ? Ain’t you 
feeling well ? 

Dan. Oh, I’m well enough. 

Sally. It’s an awful hot day, specially down in that 
kitchen. 

Dan. It will be cold enough for me, though. 

Sally. Something is the matter now, and I know it. 

Dan. Yes, Sally, there is. I’m sorry to say that you’ll 
have to leave here. 

Sally. Me leave ? Why, what have I done ? I—I— 
I—-don’t want to leave here. (Cries) You needn’t to 
p—p—pay me any wages, sir, if you’ll only let me stay. 

Dan. (aside) Poor little thing. (Aloud) I can’t help it, 
Sally. I shall have to get out myself. 

Sally, (sjirprised) Why, ain’t this your own house, sir ? 

Dan. I thought it was, but I’m afraid I’ll have no house 
nor money either after to-day. 

Sally. Indeed you will, sir. I’ve got eleven whole dol¬ 
lars saved up that you can have. 

Dan. Sally, if things were all right with me I’d make that 
eleven dollars eleven hundred before the day was over. As 
it is, I can only wish you good luck and a good husband. 

Sally, (aside) He don’t know I’ve got that already. 
(Aloud) And I wish you the same, with a good wife, sir. 

Dan. I need it—especially the wife, or some one who 
will pretend to be. 

Sally. How’s that, sir ? 

Dan. I can’t explain now, unless— (looks at her) —by 
Jove, why didn’t I think of her before? Sally, will you 
help me out of a scrape ? 


i6 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


Sally. With pleasure, sir—if I can. 

Dan. You can. 

Sally. Tell me how, 

Dan. By passing as my wife for three or four hours. 

Sally. Oh! (Crosses.) I couldn’t do that. 

Dan. Why not? You’re unmarried, you’re bright as a 
new dollar, pretty as a picture, and besides, it’s wholly a 
matter of form. 

Sally. But, sir —I — 

Dan. Moreover, it will save me from utter ruin, and will 
put a thousand dollars in your pocket. 

Sally. One—thousand—whole—dollars ? 

Dan. One thousand whole dollars. 

Sally, (aside) Why, Jorkins and I’ll be rich ! I’ll do it, sir. 

Dan. You will ? (quickly) 

Sally, (nods head) I will. 

Dan. Saved at last! (Goes up.) 

Sally, (aside) I’ll be the lady of the house, and oh! 
won’t I make Jorkins toe the mark ! Well, I guess! 

Dan. Now, Sally, we may as well get the run of things. 
We’ve been married two years. 

Sally. Two years—ah, ha ! 

Dan. Of course our honeymoon love is over by this 
time, so once in a while we’ll have a row. 

Sally. Me row, sir ? 

Dan. Of course. 

Sally. And with you ? 

Dan. To be sure. 

Sally. Oh, I dass’n’t, sir. 

Dan. It’s all make-believe, you know. 

Sally. All right. What next, sir ? 

Dan. You mustn’t say “sir” to me; that would give 
everything dead away. Call me “ Dan.” 

Sally. All right, Dan. (Suddenly) Ow! What would 
Jorkins say ? 

Dan. Jorkins be hanged! It’s none of his business. 

Sally. Course not, sir ! (Aside) Oh, Gemini! —but, you 
see, sir— 

Dan. “ Sir ” ? Blast it all! 

Sally. Well, then (swallowing), I s’pose, Dan, I ought* 
to rig up in my best bib and tucker, hadn’t I, sir—Dan ? 

Dan. To be sure. Put on your best bib and tucker, by 
all means. 

Sally, (goes l.) All right, sir. 

Dan. (shouts) What! 

Sally (startled, then cutely) Dan! 






A FAMILY AFFAIR 


17 


Dan. That’s better, No more “sir,” remember. My 
aunt left a lot of ribbons and laces, and jewelry and stuff in 
her room. You can wear whatever you please. 

Sally. Thank you—Dan. {aside) Won’t I just blossom 
like the rose ! ( Exit , l. i e.) 

Dan. If Sally doesn’t make a mess of it I shall see 
Deacon Smith, and go him one better. ( Exit r. i e.) 

{Enter Miss Camson and Deacon Smith, c. d.) 

Miss Camson. Walk right in, sir. 

Deacon. Certainly, that’s what I always do. 

Miss Camson. Do what ? 

Deacon. Walk. When I enter a room I always walk. 
I neither fly, nor swim, nor skate. 

Miss Camson. You don’t tell me ! May I ask your 
name ? 

Deacon. You may. 

Miss Camson {after brief pause) Well then, what is it? 

Deacon. Smith, Madam—S-m-i-t-h. First name John 
—a deacon in the church, and I say what I think. 

Miss Camson. Do you ever say much ? 

Deacon. Eh ? Where’s Gillespie ? 

Miss Camson. Mr. Gillespie is probably attending to his 
own affairs, (l.) If you should whistle he might come. 

{Exit, L. 1 E.) 

Deacon. A very snappy woman; must be his wife. 
Poor devil! To be tied fast to such a woman ! It gives me 
the shivers ! Well, I’ll wait till he comes, see his family, 
turn over the property, and get back home. ( Takes paper 
from pocket , sits at table.) Poor fellow, poor fellow! {Reads 
paper) 

{Enter Jobson, hi woman's dress , c. d.) 

Jobson. I wonder if I’m harnessed up all right? I feel 
as crazy as a pertater-bug in a can o’ kerosene ile. Where 
the dickens is the pocket of this here contraption anyhow? 
It beats the pigs in clover puzzle all holler. {Down c.) 

Deacon, {looks up) Ahem ! 

Jobson. Great Scott! {Bolts for door) 

Deacon. Madam! 

Jobson. {pauses) I’m in for it. 

Deacon. What seems to be the matter? 

Jobson. Nuthin’. {Aside) I wish I was out o’ this. 

Deacon. Madam, who are you, and what do you want? 

Jobson. I’m his wife. 


18 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


Deacon. Whose wife ? 

Jobson. The boss. 

Deacon. Eh ? 

Jobson. I mean Mr. Gillespie. 

Deacon. What ? 

Jobson. You needn’t howl like that, I’ve told you what. 

Deacon. Are you Mrs. Gillespie ? 

Jobson. Sure as eggs is eggs. 

Deacon. Are you the “ sweet little woman ” Daniel 
wrote me he’d married ? 

J obson. That was two year ago, an’ I ’ve growed sense then. 

Deacon. I should think so. He told me about your 
low, sweet voice— 

Jobson. That’s growed too. 

Deacon. Indeed! Well, I don’t doubt it. 

Jobson. ’Sides that, I’ve got the epizootic. 

Deacon. (Aside) It must be that Daniel is insane. 
(Aloud) Why did he marry you ? 

Jobson. ’Cause I’m sorter handy to have around. 

Deacon. Oh, I see. You were his cook, I suppose. 

Jobson. No, sir—gardener—er—yes, I’m a—sort of a 
cook, (aside) I’m gittin’ all mixed up. 

Deacon. Well—there’s no accounting for tastes. 

Jobson. Jest wot I says. Some folks like summer 
squash, but I don’t. No, sir. Gimme the real old Hubbard 
squash ever’ time. An’ then there’s pertaters. Now as for 
pertaters, I alius sez— 

Deacon. Confound your potatoes ! 

Jobson. You let my pertaters alone. What business 
have you got here anyhow ? 

Deacon. My business is with your poor unfortunate 
husband. Where is he ? 

Jobson. He ain’t es poor es you seem ter think, mister 
man. He’ll have plenty of money when that fool of an old 
Deacon from New York— 

Deacon. Silence, madam! I’ll not be insulted to my 
face by a wretched old dodo like you. 

Jobson. Hey! Call me a dodo? Me? Say, you old 
go-cart, if you’ll come out doors I’ll kick you plumb over 
the fence. ( Threatens him.) 

Deacon. Keep away, you she woman—keep away ! 

Jobson. “She woman” be I. Well, I’ll be a son of a 
gun if I don’t show you ! (Grabs Deacon.) 

Dan. (off c.) All right—all right. 

Jobson. ( Throws Deacon on sofa). Now I’ve done it. 
(Exit R. I E.) 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


19 


{Enter Dan, quickly , c. d.) 

Dan. Excuse me. Are you Mr.— 

Deacon. ( On sofa) Get out, get out. 

Dan. “ Get out, get out!” That’s an odd name. 

Deacon. (Sits up.) My name, sir ? My name is Smith. 

Dan. That’s odder yet. Are you the Deacon ? 

Deacon. Yes, sir, though I’m blamed if 1 feel much like 
a Deacon just now. Are you Gillespie ? 

Dan. That’s who I am. Now what’s the matter with 
you ? 

Deacon. That woman, sir; that terrible cyclone of a 
woman. That’s what’s the matter with me. ( Crosses to r.) 

Dan. Been having a row with Miss Camson. Ah, ha! 
(aloud) What did she do ? 

(Enter Miss Camson, l.) 

Deacon. Do ? She mopped the floor with me. 

Dan. Miss Camson, is—it—possible, really possible, that 
you mopped the floor with the Deacon ? 

Miss Camson. Why, I never touched him. 

Deacon. Of course, she didn’t touch me. 

Dan. Who then ? 

Deacon. Who then ? Why, that husky-voiced, double- 
jointed, holy-terror wife of yours. 

Miss Camson. Sir! How dare you? I am his wife. 
Dan. ’Sh! 

Deacon. I know better. Is she your wife ? 

Miss Camson. (hurriedly) It’s all right, Danny; I’ll save 
you. 

Dan. Good heavens, no ! (Down r.) 

Miss Camson. Oh, the ingrate ! (Goes up l.) 

(Enter Jobson, r, i e., unseen by Dan. Still wears dress) 

Dan. (proudly) My wife, sir, is the sweetest little woman 
you ever saw. 

Deacon. Little! (points to Jobson) Do you call that 
thing little ? 

Dan. (looks around) Eh ! (to Jobson) Get out! That’s not 
my wife ! (Assumed disgusted tone and ma?iner) 

Deacon. Who the deuce is she, then? 

Jobson. Why, I’m his— 

Dan. Shut up ! ( Turns to Deacon.) That! That’s my 
washerwoman! (To Jobson) Skip,you dougenhead ! Get 
out! 

Deacon, (visisting) She said she was your wife. 


20 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


Dan. You mustn’t mind her. Good woman— good 
woman—means well, and all that—but she’s buzzy—family 
troubles—buried six husbands—wheels in her head— 
Buz-z-z-z ! 

Deacon. Ah, yes ! Then where the deuce is your wife ! 

{Enter Sally, c. d., loudly dressed .) 

Dan. Where ? Right here. {Brings her down c. Deacon 
crosses to r.) My own true little wife ! 

Sally. You bet! {They embrace.) 

{All show surprise. Jobson tumbles into Deacon’s arms.) 


quick curtain 


ACT II 

SCENE. — The same. Discover Deacon at table , seated , 

smoking a cigar. Dan stands c., lighting cigar. 

Deacon. I say, Daniel — you don’t mind if I call you 
Daniel ? 

Dan. Not at all, Deacon—only leave off the “yell.” 

Deacon. Well, Dan, you seem to have a regular harem 
here—a genuine seraglio. Where in creation did you corral 
that female prize-fighter ? 

Dan. You’re a trifle mixed, Deacon, and so was I. 

Deacon. In what way ? 

Dan. Well, you see, the woman that shook you up so 
wasn’t a woman. 

Deacon. You’re right; she was a terror. 

Dan. You’re wrong. She was a man. 

Deacon. Get out! 

Dan. Sure. It was Jobson—my gardener. 

Deacon. Um ! why did he do it ? 

Dan. It was one of Jobson’s jokes. 

Deacon. Well! If Jobson jokes with me again in that 
way, I’ll have him up for assault and battery. 

(. E?iter Jobson, l. i e.) 

Dan. Wasn’t it a joke, Jobson ? 

Jobson {gloomily) Which one, sir? 

Dan. Which one ? Why, yours, of course—dressing up 
as a woman, and playing tag with the Deacon ? 

Jobson. No, sir; that wasn’t no joke. 

Dan. What ? {aside) Say “ yes,” confound you ! 

Jobson {gruffly) Yes. 

Dan. Jobson, look at me. Have you been drinking ? 

Jobson. No, sir. 

Dan. Then why did you do it ? 

Jobson. Why, sir — I—I— {aside) Oh, gosh! 

Dan. You thought my wife was away visiting friends, and 
you believed a lady of the house was vitally necessary. 
Wasn’t that it ? 

Jobson {positively) Yes, sir; that was it {aside). Talk 
about gall! 

Dan. Well, I’ve mentioned the matter to my wife, and 
we have decided to overlook your fault this time. But, 
remember, Jobson.. it must never occur again. 

21 


22 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


Jobson {groans aside) Oh ! 

Dan. The Deacon doesn’t like to play tag, especially 
when he’s “ it do you, Deacon ? 

Deacon. Not by a—( Stops suddenly , Dan\t hand over 
his lips) 

Dan. “ Sight ?” Exactly. 

Deacon. So far, so good. But who was the other 
antique specimen that claimed to be your wife ? Was she 
a man also ? 

Dan. Bless you, no ; that was Jobson’s wife; she was 
deeply interested, and unknown to him she tried to help 
me out. Isn’t that so, Jobson ? 

Jobson. ( draws breath) Yes, sir. ( Goes up.) 

Deacon. Well, I’m glad the tangle is straightened out. 

Dan. So am I, and if Jobson ever again— (Sees Sally, 
who enters L. i e.) Oh, my darling, here you are ! (About 
to kiss her) 

Jobson (loudly) Ow! 

Dan. What’s the matter, Jobson? 

Jobson. (hand lo jaw) Toothache er suthin’. 

Sally. Jobson, you’re too noisy, you may go. (Points 
grandly) 

Jobson. Oh, I may, may I ? Well, I’d just like to— 

Dan. Jobson ! When Mrs. Gillespie says “ go,” it means 
vanish. 

Jobson. Yes, sir. (At c. d., aside) I’ll go out an’, an’ I’ll 
lick somebody ! (Exit, c. d. Deacon up c.) 

Sally, (to Dan) Is it time for us to have a row ? 

Dan. No, not yet; we want to make a good impression 
on the Deacon, you know. 

Sally. Yes, sir; but when you do begin, please don’t 
be too fierce at first or I’ll be scared, sir. 

Dan. Sally, if you don’t stop calling me “ sir,” we’ll have 
a row right here. 

Deacon, (comes down) I say, Dan— 

Dan. Yes ? 

Deacon. If you’ve finished your billing and cooing I’d 
like to take a look over your place. 

Dan. I’m entirely at your service. ( Goes up with 
Deacon.) Now, my dear (to Sally), keep Jobson at work. 

Sally. You bet I will. 

Dan. And caution his wife to have no more insane 
attacks. 

Sally, (surprised a?idpuzzled) His wife? 

Dan. ’Sh ! Don’t you see ? (Aloud) To be sure, as she 
did this morning when trying to pass herself as my wife ! 



A FAMILY AFFAIR 


2 3 


Sally, {stillpuzzled) I’m beat if I— 

Dan. {shakes head warningly) Just caution her to re¬ 
member that she is Mrs. Jorkins Jobson now, and not Miss 
Camson. {To Deacon.) They’ve been married but a short 
time. Married her out of pity, I suppose. 

Deacon. He certainly was a fool to marry that old 
crone. {Exit, c. d.) 

Dan. Good-by, my dear, we’ll be back soon. {Exit, c. d.) 

Sally. Good-by. So {half crying), Mr. Jorkins Jobson 
has a wife already ! {Angrily.) The bigamorious bigamist! 
Oh—h! Just you wait! If I don’t make him think a 
cyclone has broke loose into this here neighborhood! 
( Crosses.) 

{Enter Jobson, c. d.) 

Jobson. {pause, aside) There she is, the Mormon ! Sally! 

Sally, {grandly) Sir ! Are you addressing me, sir ? 

Jobson. Yes, mum, I be, sir. 

Sally. Then in future you’d better remember your 
place, or master—I mean Dan—will discharge you in¬ 
stantly to once. {Crosses.) 

Jobson. I know my place, an’ my place is to find out 
wot all this here highfalutin’ business means, b’gosh ! 

Sally. Then go to your wife and find out. 

Jobson. That’s wot I’m a-tryin’ to do. 

Sally. Then don’t stand talking to me. 

Jobson. Who else would I talk to ? 

Sally. Your wife, of course. 

Jobson. My wife? {Aside.) I wonder if I’ve got ’em? 

Sally. Well, why don’t you go ? 

Jobson. Say, haint you my wife ? 

Sally. What! Have you got the impudent impudence 
to stand there and call me your wife to my own face ? 

Jobson. Wasn’t we married ? 

Sally. Yes, after you’d already married old Mother 
Camson. 

Jobson. {aside) Now I know I have got ’em! 

Sally, {crying) Just to think that you’d g-g-go and 
marry a woman old enough to be your grandmother! 
{Stamps foot indignantly .) Ouch ! 

Jobson. {half crying) And to think you’d go an’ be my 
widder an’get married agin afore I’m dead! 

Sally. I didn’t, I’m only pretending. 

Jobson. You be? 

Sally. Sure. But you and Miss Camson—how about 
that if you please ? 



24 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


Jobson. Bother old Camson, Master Dan was only 
jokin’. She ain’t my wife. 

Sally. You mean that? 

Jobson. ’Course I do. But you Sally, you— 

Sally. You! you! you! why, you great big simpleton, 
I’m only passing myself off as his wife until the Deacon 
goes. 

Jobson. But suppose the Deacon don’t go ? 

Sally. Supposing the moon’s made of green cheese! 
I’ve agreed to be called Mrs. Gillespie for three or four 
hours—them’s the indentical words—and for doing that I 
get one thousand dollars. 

Jobson. What! 

Sally. A whole thousand dollars, that’s what. 

Jobson. Say, Sally, what you goin’ to do with all that 
money ? 

Sally. Oh, I’m going to have oceans an’ oceans of ice¬ 
cream, an’ gum, an’ a bike, an’ caramels, an’ hats and every¬ 
thing! If you’re real, real good, I’ll get you—what do you 
want ? 

Jobson. A brand-new hoe. 

Sally. You shall have it; but you must promise one 
thing. 

Jobson. What’tis? 

Sally. ( shakes finger') Not to get jealous, no matter 
what you see me say or do. 

Jobson. I hope I won’t see you say nuthin’ as wot you 
hadn’t orter—no lolly-go-goggety mashin’, you know. I’d 
bile right over if I did. 

Sally. No, Jobson ; if it should be necessary for me to 
do any “ lolly-go-goggety ” mashing you can go out and 
weed onions. 

Jobson. No, I won’t. 

Sally. Yes, you will, or you don’t get the new hoe. 
{Looks off c.) Here comes Mr. Gillespie ; now remember 
—keep your place before him, and don’t get jealous. 

{Enter Dan and Deacon, c. d.) 

Deacon, {fanning himself with hat) Whew! This is a 
scorcher. 

Dan. Yes, it is rather warm in the sun. Sally, my dear, 
we’d like a cold bottle. 

Sally. Certainly, love. Jobson, a cold bottle. 

Jobson. Yes— mum. 

Sally. No, not Mumm. We prefer Piper Heidsieck, 
don’t we, Danny ? 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


25 


Jobson. (Draws long breath , shakes head , and exits L. 1 e.) 

Dan. If that fellow doesn’t show some improvement I 
shall certainly let him go. 

Sally. You mustn’t think of that, Dan. 

Dan. Indeed I shall. 

Sally. Indeed you sha’n’t! 

Dan. See here, Mrs. Gillespie — I’ll manage my own 
servants, if you please. (Aside) You’re doing well. Keep 
up the row—keep it up. 

Sally. Well, don’t you go and bounce Jobson, ’cause if 
you do I’ll tell. 

Dan. Hush! You’ll upset everything! Excuse me, 
Deacon, but my wife is so easy-going that she really lets our 
servants run over her. 

Deacon. That’s wrong — all wrong. You shouldn’t 
allow it. I had an English butler once. The fellow had 
no respect for me nor the letter “ h.” Tried to run the 
whole house, and came near doing it, until I caught him 
pocketing some silver. Then I ran him out, and the police 
ran him in. 

Sally. Do you dare infer that my—that Jobson—would 
steal spoons ? If you do— 

Dan. Jobson be hanged! We’ve had enough of him. 

(Enter Miss Camson, c. d.) 

Miss Camson. That’s just what I say, Mr. Gillespie. 

Dan. (aside to her) Well, well! What’s the matter with 
you ? 

Miss Camson. Nothing; only that clodhopper leaves 
to-day, or else I do. 

Sally. “ Clodhopper!” Don’t you dare— (Dan looks at 
her). It’s nothing to me, of course. 

Dan. (aside) Are you in love with that fellow? 

Sally. And me your wife ? Why, dear, how can you 
dream of such a thing ? (Throws arms around his neck.) 

Dan. (pets her) There, there, dearie, don’t cry ; I won’t 
discharge an old servant. (Miss Camson beside Deacon.) 

(Enter Jobson, c. d., with bottle of wine; goes to sideboard'.) 

Sally. You’re a perfect darling of a husband, Danny. 

Jobson. (half aside) Thunder! (Uncorks bottle , fills 
glasses.) 

Deacon, (to Miss Camson) Take an old man’s advice, 
Mrs. Jobson. Your husband means well. (Takes glass of 
wine from Jobson, who serves him , and goes up c.) 




2 6 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


Miss Camson. Sir! {Crosses to Dan.) What does he 

mean ? , 

Dan. Well, the truth is, my gardener is infatuated with 
you, and the Deacon thinks you are married already. 

Miss Camson. {delighted) Oh! Isn’t that delightful! 

Dan. It’s all right. Keep it dark. 

(Jorkins turns to sideboard.) 

Miss Camson. Why, of course ! Dear Jorkins! {Em¬ 
braces him as he turns) Don’t be alarmed. Your secret is 
safe, for I won’t say a word. {Exit c. d.) 

Jobson. But I will directly ! 

Dan. Be careful there—don’t spill the wine. {Takes 
glass and gives one to Sally). Excuse me, Deacon. Give 
us a toast. 

Deacon. Here’s health and prosperity to all of us— 
especially the boy! 

All. The boy ? 

Deacon. The boy. {Drinks) 

Dan. What boy ? 

Deacon, {looks at him) There’s an unnatural father. Your 
boy, of course. 

Dan. Why, yes! {Business of Dan a?id Sally.) (To 
Sally) Our boy, of course. 

Deacon. When I see the boy, the inventory will be 
complete, and I shall then turn the property over to you. 
So trot out the youngster. 

Dan. Certainly. Sally, dear, trot out the boy. 

Sally. What —me ? 

Jobson. I guess not. {Dri?iks calmly) 

Dan. {to Sally) Remember the thousand dollars. 

Deacon. I’m anxious, really anxious to see the dear 
little fellow. So hurry up and produce him. {Down, L.) 

Dan. {to Sally) Speak up, now. 

Jobson. {aside) Now, lie’s stuck ! {Drinks) 

Deacon. Well! well! 

Sally. You want to see the kid ? So you shall. 

Jobson. {chokes) \Jg\ Ug! 

(Dan slaps his back. He exits c.) 

Sally, {down r. with Dan) What’ll I do for a baby ? 

Dan. Beg or borrow one somewhere. 

Sally. I just can’t, and that’s flat. I’m no walking 
orphan asylum. So there ! 

{Exit r. i e.) 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


27 


Dan. Here’s a kettle of fish ! 

Deacon. Has she gone after him ? Never mind about 
dressing him up, you know. Bring him just as he is. 

Dan. Well, you see, Deacon, the—my—that is, the young 
gentleman is out. 

Deacon. Out ? 

Dan. Yes, out. He’s playing foot-ball. 

Deacon. He’s what ? 

Dan. I mean lie’s gone skating—that is, he’s picking 
cherries. 

Deacon. Picking cherries ? Bless my soul! 

Dan. Or perhaps he’s at the base-ball match, or some¬ 
where. Anyhow, my wife will find him. Shall we settle 
up this business while she’s gone ? 

Deacon. One year old, and picking cherries! 

Dan. Out of a basket, you know; he’s very fond of 
fruit. By-the-way, I don’t want to hurry you off, you know, 
(looks at watch ) but the next train leaves in half an hour. 

Deacon. And skating in midsummer, too! 

Dan. Did I say skating? Did I, really? Why, I mean 
yachting. He’s a born sailor. Just wait till you see him. 
(Aside.) Oh, what a mess I’m making of it! (Exit r. i e.) 

Deacon. Yes, I’ll wait. (Introduces song, and exit l. i e.) 

(Enter Dan and Sally, r. i e.) 

Dan. No use of talking, Sally ; it must be done. 

Sally. Maybe it must be done, but how can it be done 
when it can’t be did ? It wasn’t no part of my contract to 
go hunting up of a family. 

Dan. Do you want more money ? 

Sally. Now, Mr.—Dan—you know ’/ain’t money ! Drat 
the money! It’s what folks will say, 

Dan. Never mind that. (May mb educe double song. 
Both exit r. 1 e.) 

(Enter Miss Camson, c. d.) 

Miss Camson. I really must find out more about Jorkins, 
the dear man. Not that I would mention it for the 
world ; but to think that all this time he has been so capti¬ 
vated with my charms that he has really been telling people 
we were already married! Isn’t it sweet! “Mrs. Jorkins 
Jobson!” What a lovely name! I’ll have some visiting 
cards printed right away, so I will. ( Giggles) I suppose I 
must settle down now, and not be so girlish. “ Mrs. 
Jobson !” Oo—o! (Sails gra?idly up l.) 

(Enter Dan, r. i e. Sits dejectedly .) 


28 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


Dan. It’s a very bad practice to overdo things. If I 
hadn’t become the hither of an imaginary family I wouldn’t 
be in such a scrape. Sally declares she can’t find a baby at 
such short notice, so the jig’s up. 

Miss Camson. {comes down) Why, Mr. Gillespie, what’s 
the matter? 

Dan. The matter, Miss Camson— 

Miss Camson. Jobson, please. 

Dan. Oh, yes, I forgot. The fact is I need a baby, and 
I need it in a hurry. Now, have you got a— 

Miss Camson. Daniel Gillespie, what do you mean ? 

Dan. I mean have you a friend or acquaintance from 
whom you can borrow one for an hour ? 

Miss Camson. I should say not. What would people 
think if I should go about the neighborhood borrowing 
babies ? 

Dan. I only want one. 

Miss Camson. What on earth do you want with it ? 

Dan. I wrote the Deacon I was the father of a family, 
and he insists on seeing the family. 

Miss Camson. Well, Mr. Gillespie, it seems to me that 
you have got yourself into a scrape. 

Dan. Yes—an awful scrape. 

Miss Camson. And as you have only yourself to thank 
for it, you must get out of it the best way you can. I would 
gladly help you if I could, but my standing in this commu¬ 
nity as Mrs. Jorkins Jobson, forbids me going out on an in¬ 
sane search for babies. {Exit l. i e.) 

Dan. Foiled! Foiled by my myrmidons! My grand, 
glittering palace will be dashed to the ground, all for the 
want of a kid. {Cross l.) Something must be done—but 
what, where, how, why, when ? 

{Enter Jobson, r. i e.) 

Jobson. Mr. Dan, I want to ax one question, an’ that is, 
what’s all this here about that there baby ? 

Dan. Do you know where there’s any lying around 
loose ? 

Jobson. I mean the one what— 

Dan. I don’t care what one—any one. 

Jobson. Yes, sir; you know Sally said — 

Dan. Never mind what Sally said. Think, study, pound 
your head, rattle your brains, stir your stumps, and find me 
a baby in fifteen minutes or I’m a ruined man. 

Jobson. But, Mr. Dan — 

Dan. Do you want to see me a beggar ? 



A FAMILY AFFAIR 


29 


Jobson. ’Course not. But what kind of a— 

Dan. I don’t care what kind; old, young, big, little, fat, 
lean, short, tall, blue-eyed, black-eyed, cross-eyed, wall- 
eyed ( pushes him r.), lame, halt, or blind—any old thing 
will do. 

Jobson. But you hain’t told me— 

Dan. Yes I have. Now get a move for once, (Jobson 
exits r. 1 e.) Ten to one he’ll fail. If he does—well— 
there’s no use trusting to others ; I’ll do it myself. A child 
must be found, and I’ll find a child, even if I have to kid¬ 
nap one. {Exit r. i e.) 

{Enter Deacon, c. d.) 

Deacon. Hello! {Looks arouncL) Nobody visible. 
Well, I suppose they’re all gone to find the little fellow. 
Well, Daniel is a little gay for a benedict, but then, bless 
his heart, I was young once myself. {Sits at table) It’s a 
tidy little wife and a tidy little home that he has, and a snug 
little fortune he’ll have. {Looks over memorandum book) 

{Enter Sally with property baby c. d. Wears hat) 

Sally. I’ve found one, but oh, ricketty Ann, it was a job ! 
Folks seem to think I’d hoodoo their kids. 

Deacon, {looks up) Ah ! so you’ve got the little fellow, 
eh, my dear ? Found him all right, did you ? 

Sally. Yes, sir ; here she is. 

Deacon. “She”! Did you say “she ” ? 

Sally. Yep. Don’t she look just like her mother ? 

Deacon. But your husband said it was a boy. 

Sally. You must of miscomprehended him, sir, ’cause 
I’m distinctionly certain about it. Hush-a-bye, dearie, don’t 
cry. 

Deacon, {aside) Now I’ll swear he said a boy. {Aloud) 
Isn’t it rather small for its size ? 

Sally. Oh, no, sir. It’s quite old for its age. 

Deacon. And what’s # that ? 

Sally. Why, it’s—yes, sir—about that. 

Deacon. I should say it wasn’t more than six months 
or less. 

Sally. That’s it, sir—six months, or less. 

Deacon. And plays foot-ball ? 

Sally. Yes, sir; she’s a great kicker. You ought to 
see her when she’s— 

Deacon. And goes to base-ball matches ? 

Sally. Oh, yes—she’s one of them new women, you 
know. {Aside) I’m getting to be an awful liar. 


3© 


A FAMIT.Y AFFAIR 


Deacon. ( shakes finger) And climbs cherry trees ? 
Sally. No, sir. {Head up.) This ain’t the one that does 
that, it’s the tother ! 

Deacon. So there’s a “tother,” eh? I see, I see. 
That accounts for it. Ah {to baby), you little rogue ! I 
hadn’t heard of you before, and I’d begun to have my 
doubts, but I understand it now. {Keeps up by-play with 
Sally, and baby , r. c.) 

{Enter Dan, c. d. Carries boy of three or four years under 

his arm.) 

Dan. {triumphantly) Here you are, Deacon, here you are. 
Look at my young olive branch. Gaze on him. Isn’t he a 
corker ? 

Deacon. A fine boy that; yes, sir, a fine boy. 

Dan. I thought you’d say so. 

Deacon. So I do. But why didn’t you tell me about the 
other ? 

Dan. {carelessly) The other what ? 

Sally. Whew ! {Signals but neither man sees her.) 
Deacon. The girl, of course. 

Dan. The girl? {Sees Sally) Oh, you see, they were 
both of the same age—twins, you know, and all that—so I 
never thought of it. 

Deacon. It strikes me there’s a tremendous difference 
between them for twins. 

Dan. Oh, dear no. This one {indicates boy) is the oldest 
and grew the fastest. That’s all. See here. {All are l.) 
Observe the family resemblance. There’s Sally’s eyes, 
{points to children , all are together) here’s my nose, her 
ears, my chin— 

Deacon. No, Dan, you’ve lost none of your “ chin.” 
Dan. Think so? {To baby) Come to your popper. 
{Takes baby) Now we’re happy. {All keep up by -play.) 

{Enter Miss Camson, r. i e., with property baby do 7 ie up 
in numerous wraps , which she quickly removes while 
speaking.) 

Miss Camson. I suppose I’ll be dreadfully talked about, 
but I couldn’t see him ruined. {Crosses to Dan, who is c., 
with baby in left arm.) Here’s your baby, Mr. Gillespie, and 
don’t say I haven’t been a good friend. {Puts baby in Dan’s 
right arm and returns r.) 

Dan. {Glares at her) 

Deacon. How’s this, Daniel ! Still another twin ? 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


31 


Dan. This ? ( Breathes hard, glares from baby to Miss 

Camson.) 

Deacon. Daniel! {Slowly) It seems to be raining babies 
around here. 

Sally. But that isn’t his. ( Takes last baby) 

Deacon. Whose, then ? 

Sally. It’s—it’s— {to Dan) —help me out. Who’ll I say? 
Dan. {iloudly, nodding towards Miss Camson) Her’s, 
that’s who ! (Changes baby into right arm) 

Miss Camson. Oh! You wretched villain ! 

Jobson. {off c. d.) Hooray ! I’ve got him ! 

(Enter Jobson, c. d., with property negro baby, its face cov¬ 
ered with wraps) 

Jobson. Hooray! (Crosses to Dan.) Here’s yer baby, 
sir. (Aside; puts property baby into Dan’s left arm) I 
swiped him off a perambylater. ( Uncovers its face, show¬ 
ing a negro baby) 

All. A negro baby ! 

Dan. Oh, go drown yourself! (Takes stage, front to 
rear, with baby under each arm. Babies all cry. Boy dives 
between Deacon’s legs. Sally threatens Jobson. Miss 
Camson holds hands to ears. Music. “Brand New Coon in 
Tow?i." • 

quick curtain 

Second Curtain. —Dan seated, woe-begone look, at c. All 
the babies on his lap ; all crying. Boy howls and clings to 
him. Jobson and Sally l. ; he appealmg, she angry. 
Miss Camson and Deacon r. 



ACT III 

SCENE.— Parlor in fourth grooves. Moonlight .landscape 

backing. Moonlight through windows. See Scene Plot. 

Time. evening. Distant chorus at rise. Discover Jobson 

seated despondently on tete. Negro baby. wrapped up. 

lying beside him. 

Jobson. Well, I’m jest plumb dumb petered out! Ef 
this haiu’t been the all-firedest, avvfulest day I’ve ever 
knowed. What with atween gittin’ married, seem’ my 
wife passin’ as somebody else’s wife, havin’ that old chromo 
chasin’ of me, bein’ a woman myself pro temperous, an’ 
stealin’ babies ! Eh ? {Looks at baby) Lay still, you lump 
o’ black charcoal! We got all the other kids returned to 
their proper owners in safety—all but this here imp o’ dark¬ 
ness ! An’ this, o’ course, has to be the one I stole out of 
its carriage unbeknowin’ what it was ! When I went to take 
it back the carriage was up and gone. So here I am, a dry 
nuss for an animated chunk o’ black beeswax. Hush! 
Sleep, you viper ! Don’t you dare wake up. 

Dan. ( entering d. f.) Hello, Jobson ! How’s the infant? 

Jobson. It’s been a-howlin’ bloody blue "murder, till I 
thought it would bust its biler. 

Dan. Too bad, too bad. I’m afraid you are not treating 
it in a fatherly manner. {Sits.) 

Jobson. Look a-here, Mr. Dan, I’ve stood more to-day 
than most men could without kerfloppin’, an’ I ain’t kicked 
at it nuther; but to put the apperlication of father agin 
me to that air son o’ Ham is too much. 

Dan. Take it cool, Jobson—don’t get excited. Now, I 
don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you know it looks very 
suspicious. Here’s an infant that appears suddenly from 
nowhere in your arms. The other children are easily re¬ 
turned to their doting mammas, but this little brunette 
remains with you, and you can give no good account of it. 
I say it looks suspicious. So does my wife. So does every¬ 
body ! 

Jobson. Ever’body be hanged! What do I want with the 
coon ? 

Dan. I’m sure I don’t know—unless you want to start 
an “ Uncle Tom ” company. 

Jobson. Say, now, honest Injun, what be I goin’ to do 
with it ? 

3 2 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


33 


Dan. Take it home to its mother. 

Jobson. But, ding blast it! I don’t know who its mother is. 

Dan. Then you better advertise. 

Jobson. Yes, sir! (Goes r.) I’ll advertise fer a private 
cell in a lunatical asaylum ! 

Dan. (follows with baby) Hold on, hold—on. Don’t for¬ 
get the baby ! (Puts it in his arms) 

Jobson. Gosh! (Exit, r. i e.) 

(Enter Deacon, l. i e.) 

Deacon. Little ones all abed, Dan ? 

Dan. Long ago. Early to bed and early to rise is my 
motto, for children. 

Deacon. A very good motto, indeed. But, I say, Dan, 
how many of these assorted youngsters are yours ? 

Dan. I’ll confess to two of them. 

Deacon. But the old party—Mrs. Jobson ! 

Dan. That was her youngest. She is very proud of it, 
you see, and wanted to show it off. ( They sit) 

Deacon. Yes—but didn’t she say it was yours ? 

Dan. That’s because it’s—that is, I am —I’m a sort of 
godfather to it. 

Deacon. I see—I see. How about the darky baby ? 

Dan. (shakes head sadly) Another of Jobson’s jokes. 

Deacon. Humph! You better hire that fellow out to a 
comic almanac! 

Dan. He’s a good fellow, Deacon, if he’d only stick to 
the truth. 

Deacon. If he doesn’t stop prevaricating I’d discharge 
him. I can’t endure a chronic liar. 

Dan. Neither can I. An untruthful liar is something I 
detest. 

Deacon. That sentiment does you credit, Daniel. 
(Shakes Dan’s hand) That’s the way I’ve brought up my 
family. 

Dan. Then you have a family also ? 

Deacon. A stepdaughter only. Sweetest girl you ever 
saw. Here’s her picture (gives photograph). 

Dan. (aside) Good heavens ! The girl I’m in love with ! 
(Puts photograph on table) 

Deacon. If you weren’t married, Dan, who knows—you 
might be my son-in-law some day. 

Dan. Urn— yes — that is to say, if I were single I could 
have your daughter, eh ? 

Deacon. Yes, sir—if she agreed to it. 

Dan. (unthinking) By Jove, then, it’s a go ! 

3 LefC. 


34 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


Deacon ( quickly ) What! What!— What! 

Dan. I said I had to go — if you’ll excuse me ! I’ll be 
right back. ( Goes r. Aside) My sweetheart’s father ! That 
settles me ! {Exit r. i e.) 

Deacon. Daniel seems agitated—though I don’t wonder 
at it. Three wives and half a dozen children in one day 
would upset anybody. (Yawns.) I’m too tired to go back 
to town (ties on sofa), so I think I’ll stay here to-night. 

(Enter Jobson and Miss Camson, l. i e.) 

Jobson. There’s no use argyfyin’ with me no longer. I 
ain’t your husband, an’ you know it; never was, ner never 
want to be. 

Miss Camson. (cries) Oh, Jorkins ! 

Jobson. ’Cause why? Well, atween you an’ me— on 
the dead quiet—you won’t tell ? 

Miss Camson. Not a word. 

Jobson. Well, then, I’m married already. 

Miss Camson. Well, I never! Oh, Jorkins! (Cries!) 

Deacon, (aside) So, so. This gets interesting. 

Jobson. I know it’s tough, but don’t cry. There’s good 
fish still in the sea. Why don’t you try Deacon Smith ? 

Deacon, (aside) Not on your life ! 

Jobson. What did you say ? 

Miss Camson. I didn’t say anything. I was only won¬ 
dering what the dear Deacon would think or say if he knew 
of this deception. 

Deacon, (rises) You were, eh ? (Comes c.) 

(Miss Camson and Jobson yell and rim down r. and l. 

She exits r. i e.) 

Deacon. I’ll tell you what I think I’ll say, and that is 
that you’re a couple of impostors whom I shall report to 
Daniel at once. 

Jobson. I guess you hadn’t better do that. 

Deacon. What do you mean, sir? 

Jobson. I mean if there’s any reportin’ to be did I’ll 
kinder take a whack at it myself. 

(Enter Sally quickly , l. i e.) 

Sally. Jorkins, Jorkins, where is that dreadful baby ? 

Jobson. Which one of ’em ? 

Sally. The darky. 

Jobson. I put it a-bed in the coal hod. 

Sally. Well, get it —run— hide —do something ! 

Jobson. For which ? 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


35 


Sally. There’s a perfectly awful negro woman coming 
here with a razor a yard long, and she’ll carve you up for 
stealing her baby. 

Jobson. Tell her it’s agin the law to go carvin’ folks! 

Sally. Oh, nonsense ! Hide, I tell you. 

Louisiana. ( off d. f.) Whar dat man ? Luff me fin’ him, 

I tole you ! 

Sally. Here she comes ! 

( Enter Louisiana, d. f., with huge razor) 

(Jobson howls and runs off r. i e.) 

Louisiana, {to Deacon) Am yo’ de ’prietor of dis yah 
house ? 

Deacon. No, I’m not. 

Louisiana. You’m not? 

Deacon. No, I tell you. 

Louisiana, {to Sally) Am yo’ de ’priertress ? 

Sally. What do you want ? 

Louisiana. What I wants ? I’se lookin’ fo’ de man 
what stolded mail babby. Dey done tole me 'he’s har! 
Oh-h ! Jess luff me fin’ him ! 

Deacon. Give me that weapon. 

Louisiana. Dat which ? 

Deacon. That overgrown razor. Give it to me, or I’ll 
lock you up for murderous*assault. 

Louisiana. Yas, sail! {Gives razor) But I wants mail 
babby! 

Deacon. Now, then, who are you ? 

Louisiana. Louisian’ Johnsing, sail, an’ mah babby am 
Christfo’ C’lumbus Eb’nezer Jackson Johnsing. 

Sally. Where did you lose him ? 

Louisiana. Didn’t done lose him nowhar! Had him 
out in er kerridge wiv er top on so’s he wouldn’t get tanned, 
an’ dey stolded him. 

Sally. What for? 

Louisiana. Fo’ er “ missin’ link,” a man say, an’ {cries) 
boo ! hoo ! hoo ! I’ll nebber see him agin ! 

Deacon. Don’t howl like that! 

Sally. Where do you live ? 

Louisiana. Half er mile down de road, an’ twice aroun’ 
de corner. 

Sally. Well, if we see anything of your baby— • 

Deacon. Or, if he conies strolling in here — 

Sally. We’ll send him right home. 

Louisiana. T’ank yo’ bofe. He’s a booful babby, an’ I 


36 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


sots a heap store by him. ( Goes up) An’ ef I fin’ out 
de man whut—( pauses, baby cries) ef I fin’—say—dat’s 
mah Christfo’ C’lumbus! I knows his bugle call. Oh—h! 
Gib me room ! I’se a coinin’! ( Rushes off r. i e. Crash. 
Yells. Jobson runs on r. i e. with baby, which cries through¬ 
out, followed by Louisiana.) 

{Enter Dan, d. f.) 

(Jobson rims across and exits l. i e., followed by Lou¬ 
isiana.) 

Dan. After the bawl! Another of Jobson’s jokes. 
Sally. Oh, she’ll kill him ! Won’t somebody stop her ? 

(Jobson runs on d. f., down l. Meets Miss Camson, 
who enters l. i e. Tosses baby into her arms and runs off 
l. i e. Miss Camson starts up c. Meets Louisiana, 
who enters d. f.) 

Louisiana. Give me mah babby! 

(Miss Camson screams , forces baby into Deacon’s arms 
# and runs off r. i e.) 

Louisiana. Now I’se got ’um. {Grabs Deacon around 
the neck , whirls him around three times, gets baby and exits 
triumphantly, d. f.) 

(Deacon during above has been yelling “ Take her away f 
tumbles on sofa as she releases him) 

{Music during above, “ Brand New Coon in Town ,” double 

time.) 

Dan. {music ceases) And the colored troops fought 
nobly! 

Deacon. I wonder if the lightning hit anybody else ? 
Sally. Are you hurt, Deacon ? 

{Enter Jobson, l. t e.) 

Deacon. Hurt? I’m half strangled. 

Dan. (/<9 Jobson) Now you see the result of your non¬ 
sense. The Deacon is half strangled, my wife is worried, 
Miss Camson frightened into fits, and you nearly murdered, 
just because you go kidnapping young coons. I hope this 
will be a warning—a lesson to you, Jobson, and that in 
future you will conduct yourself with more dignity. 

Jobson. Well, I’ll be blessed. 

Deacon. That’s good advice, Dan; but you should 
drive it into his head with a club. 

Dan. I guess it won’t happen again. 


A FAMILY AFFATR 


37 


Jobson {aside) I’m dinged sure it won’t. 

Deacon. I’m such a wreck, Dan, that I can’t return to¬ 
night. So if you can give me a room I’ll stay until morn¬ 
ing. 

Jobson. What! 

(Sally shakes fist at him.) 

Dan. With pleasure. {Up stage.) Sally, my dear, is 
there a room in readiness for the Deacon ? 

Sally. Sure. 

Dan. All right, Deacon ; we’ll try to make it pleasant 
for you. {Rxit d. f.) 

Jobson. Now look a-here. This thing’s gone fer 
enough. The worm’ll turn when it’s cornered, and I’ve ben 
stamped on all day. 

Deacon. Well, what’s the trouble now? 

Jobson. The trouble is that I’m a married man. 

Deacon. You are—and I pity you. 

Sally. You do? Well, I like that! 

Deacon. Don’t you? 

Jobson. No, she don’t, seein’ as how— 

Sally. Jobson! 

Jobson. You can’t “ Jobson ” me ! Be you goin’ to stay 
here to-night ? 

Deacon. It’s none of your business. 

Jobson. P’raps not. I ain’t argifyin’ that point; but be 
you ? 

Deacon. Of course I am. 

Jobson. {to Sally) He is? 

Sally. Of course he is. 

Deacon. Now, what of it ? 

Jobson. Then the jig’s up. Sally’s my wife. 

Deacon, {shakes head) You grow worse every hour. 
Your mania for lying passes belief. 

Jobson. I know it; I ain’t done nuthin’ but lie all day. 
But I’m tellin’ the truth now; if you don’t believe it, ask 
her. 

Deacon. I don’t understand this. {To Sally.) Will 
you explain? 

Jobson. Now Sally—tell the truth. 

Sally. You’re a nice one. I won’t tell! I won’t! I 
won’t! I won’t! {Stamps.) 

Deacon. But I insist. 

Jobson. An’ I insistively insist. 

Sally, {crying) Oh dear, oh dear! What am I going to 
say ? 


38 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


Deacon. ( pulling her around) Are you this man’s wife ? 

Jobson. {pulling her back) Speak up, now. 

Sally, {after an effort) Y-yes, sir; I—I was only per- 
tending to be Mr. Dan’s wife. 

Deacon. Indeed! So he isn’t married at all ? 

Sally. Oh. please don’t blame him, sir. He only— 

Deacon. That will do. All I want to know is why— 
you—did—it. 

Sally. Because you see, sir, he had to have a wife or 
he couldn’t get the property. 

Deacon. And so he borrowed you ! 

Sally. But he didn’t know I was married. 

Deacon. And those assorted infants—were they yours, 
too ? 

Sally. Sir! ( Tosses head and crosses.) 

Deacon. Eh ? No, I suppose not. At all events Mr. 
Daniel Gillespie is a thoroughbred rascal. 

Sally. No, he isn’t. 

Jobson. You mustn’t call him names, mister, or there’ll 
be trouble right here to once. 

Deacon. Keep cool, my man—keep cool, or you’ll find 
yourself in hot water. 

Jobson. I don’t care ef it’s bilin’ hot. 

Sally. Me neither. 

Deacon. You’re an odd couple. Why didn’t that young 
rascal get married in reality ? 

Sally. He wanted to, but he can’t. 

Deacon. Why not. Eh ? Why not ? 

Sally. ’Cause the girl’s old fool of a father won’t let her 
marry till she’s nineteen. 

Deacon. ’Urn—who is the girl ? 

Sally. I dunno. {Sees photo on tablet) There’s her pic¬ 
ture. 

Deacon. Hum ! Are you sure of that ? 

Sally. Well rather. Ain’t I seen him a-kissin’one just 
like it? Well, I guess! 

Deacon. I see. Well, go in yonder {points l.) and stay 
until you’re called. 

Jobson. Hold on, b’gosh ! That’s his room. 

Deacon. So much the better. 

Sally, {goes l.) You won’t make him any trouble ? 

Deacon. I’ll have a talk with him. Get along with you. 

Sally. All right, sir. But if you do raise a row I’ll deny 
everything I’ve told you. {Exit l. i e.) 

Jobson. An’ then there’ll be bloodshed shod all over 
this house. 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


39 


Deacon. You hold your tongue. 

{Enter Dan, d. f.) 

Dan. Now, Deacon, any time you wish to retire your 
room is ready. 

Deacon. Very well, Dan. Which room is it ? 

Dan. Second floor front. 

Deacon. I say, Dan, 1 didn’t bring any— 

Dan. That’s all right. I laid out one of mine. 

Deacon. Thanks. Now, I’m something of a night- 
hawk, so if you don’t object, I’ll sit up and read for a while. 

Dan. Suit yourself. This is Liberty Hall, you know, 
where my friends do as they please. But it’s rather late, so 
I guess I’ll turn in. {Goes l.) Good-night, Deacon. 

Deacon. Good-night. 

Dan. {at l. i e.) Good-night, Jobson. 

Jobson. {aside) Limpin’alligators ! 

Dan. {turns) What is that ? 

Jobson. Nuthin.’ 

Dan. Good-night, then. {Exit l. i e.) 

(Jobson takes step l. Is checked by signal from Deacon.) 

Dan. {off l.) Come now, Sally—get out of here. Step 
lively. 

Jobson. {draws long breath) He’s saved me from a lickin’. 

{Enter Dan, leading Sally by the ear.) 

Dan. Now, young lady, you toddle. 

Sally. Ouch! 

Deacon. Here, here, here, here! Why, Dan, I’m 
astonished. What do you mean by treating your wife like 
that ? 

Dan. Oh, the deuce ! 

Deacon. The idea of driving your wife out of her own 
room ! 

Dan. I—you—see—I wanted her to look after the chil¬ 
dren. 

Deacon. Which—the baby, or his four-year-old twin 
brother ? 

Dan. Both of them, and Jobson’s also. 

Sally. Jobson’s? {Cross.) 

Jobson. Mine? 

Dan. Yes, yours ; you don’t deny your own child, I hope. 

Jobson. Me ? Me? Now, Mr. Dan, you knows I hain’t 
got none to deny. 

{Enter Miss Camson, r. i e.) 

Dan. {shakes head sorrowfully) You’re a hopeless case. 


40 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


Why, Mrs. Jobson, do you know your husband actually 
denies your own child ! 

Miss Camson. Mine? Oh, ah! Support me! ( Throws 
her arms around Deacon’s neck.) 

Deacon. Jerusalem ! {Helps her to sofa.) 

Dan. {to Jobson) Now see what you’ve done ! 

Deacon, {arm around Miss Camson ; fans her) Help 
me, somebody. She hasn’t any breath. 

Dan. Lend her some of yours. 

Miss Camson. Where am I ? 

Dan. In Paradise. 

Deacon. Daniel! {Starts to rise) 

Miss Camson. {pulls him back) Don’t leave me. 

Deacon. Of course not. Daniel, I want to say— {Starts 
to rise) • 

Miss Camso.n {pulls him down) Don’t leave me! 

Dan. {to Sally) He’s anchored. 

(Sally shakes finger at Dan ; Jobson pulls her around) 

Deacon. Daniel! {Slips head from arms and rises) 
It’s time to throw off the mask. Where—is—your—wife ? 

Dan. Where? Right here in my arms. {Turns, blit 
finds Jobson in Sally’s place) Confound you, I’ll— 

Deacon. Stop! He’s doing just right. After all the 
trust I’ve had in you, Daniel; after giving you your aunt’s 
property with a liberal hand; after forgiving you for your 
numerous wives and children—to discover that you have 
none at all! Oh, this is too much ! {Blows nose violently) 

Miss Camson. My dear, dear Deacon, don’t feel bad. 

Dan. {to Jobson) Has he found out? 

Jobson. That’s what he has. He’s on to the whole racket. 

Dan. The deuce he is ! 

Deacon. That’s what I am. And by the great John 
Rogers— 

Miss Camson. Now, Deacon, don’t swear. {They con¬ 
verse) 

Dan. {to Jobson) Some of your blundering, I suppose. 

Sally. Please forgive him. He couldn’t help it. And 
I’m just as much to blame. 

Dan. You’re a pretty pair—to ruin me like this. 

Sally. I—I—I’m so sorry; but Jobson got jealous. 

Dan. Hang it all! What business was it of his ? 

Sally. Nothing—only because— 

Dan. Well—what ? 

Sally. Because I—oh, Mr. Dan, please forgive me— 
but I’m his wife. 


A FAMILY AFFAIR 


41 


Dan. You two? 

Sally. We one. 

Jobson. That’s what we be. An’ bein’ a brand new 
Benedicter, I couldn’t stand such goin’s on. I didn’t mind 
bein’ a woman pro temporuin, ner stealin’ babies; but to 
see my new wife a-passin’ as yourn, and likely as not to 
continue the same, was too many for me, an’ I jest biled 
right up an’ slopped over. 

Dan. No doubt of it. Anyhow, you’ve ruined me, and I 
hope you’re satisfied. Now clear out. (Si/s in chair by 
table/) 

Sally. They say a woman can’t keep a secret. Why 
I’d died afore I’d tell. 

Jobson. I know it. Your thousand dollars an’ my new 
hoe all gone to smash. 

Sally. Stupid! 

Deacon. Tut, tut! Stop your scrapping ! 

Jobson. Let her scrap. I deserve it. 

Deacon. Perhaps you do. But this charming young 
lady— (indicates Miss Camson.) 

Miss Camson. Oh, Deacon ! 

Deacon. —has been telling me about Dan’s unselfish 
efforts to keep a home for you here. It has changed my 
opinion very much about him. (Turns to Dan.) Now, Dan, 
if you will turn over a— 

Dan. (wheels around in chair/) What’s the use ? 

Deacon. If you’ll turn over a new leaf and get a wife 
at once, I’ll forgive you everything. 

Dan. (jumps up and grasps his hand) Thank you. It’s 
a go. 

Deacon. There’s one condition— 

Dan. A dozen if you like. 

Deacon. You must agree to attend my step-daughter’s 
wedding next month. 

Dan. (limply) Oh! 

Deacon. What is it ? 

Dan. Who’s the groom ? 

Deacon. Right here! - (Slaps Dan’s shoulder and 
goes l.) 

Dan. (joyfully) I’ll be there! Sally, you’ve won the 
prize. (Grand chorus — any popular air.) 

CURTAIN 


L. C. R. 

Deacon, Miss Camson, Dan, Sally, Jobson. 






















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MRS. J. W. SHOEMAKER 
GEORGE B. HYNSON, ESQ. 


Principals 





